


Cold Feet

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5586574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo and Thorin wake in one of Bard's rooms in Laketown. Bilbo has cold feet, literally, and a demanding Dwarf to deal with, which seems to be the way he wakes up most mornings since he left the comfort of The Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Feet

His feet are cold.

That’s the first thought that travels through Bilbo’s mind when he wakes up that late September morning in Laketown, his legs somehow completely void of any warmth from the blankets on their bed. 

He’d been woken not by the sunlight blazing through the dusty windows they’d forgotten to shade in their drunken haze, nor by the twittering of birds outside the window, but by Thorin’s voice grunting “Master Burglar” over and over at him. 

“What?” Bilbo groans, turning over to burrow himself against Thorin’s body, fitting in a neat curve under the Dwarf’s chin. He’s found this is the only way to guarantee himself being covered completely whilst they share a bed. It has occurred to Bilbo more than once that neither of them are really at fault, as unaccustomed to sharing space with anyone else as they both are. He thinks fondly back to the folds of his four poster bed gathering cobwebs in Bag End and sighs, idly moving a hand up Thorin’s chest, sliding it slowly into the fabric and across the Dwarf’s warm skin.

“I’m thirsty.” Thorin says, voice raspy. “Will you get me a cup?”

Bilbo thinks about complaining and refusing to get up, but when Thorin twists his head and sleepily smiles at him the Hobbit is powerless to do anything but stumble out of the bedroom they’d claimed as their own and into the kitchen of Bard’s home. He blushes when he meets with Dwalin’s appraising eyes, Thorin’s second sat against the windowsill smoking his pipe – in the exact same place they’d left him the night before. The Hobbit stops only briefly to fill a cup for Thorin, wondering how Dwalin manages to maintain his strength when his watch seems to last all night. Returning to Thorin he realises his feet are colder now than when he woke up, and he heaves himself back onto the bed – a little to high for him – with a sigh.

“Thank you, Master Baggins.”

“I’ve asked you more than once not to call me that in bed.” Bilbo mutters, tugging the blankets around his feet and wishing not for the first time that he’d been born with as much hair on his toes as his 2nd cousin Fosco.

Thorin takes the water down as quickly as Bombur had devoured Bilbo’s loaves at Bag End, and rests slightly propped up against the pillow, leaving his chest free for Bilbo to curl into him. The subtle hint works like a charm, and Bilbo feels Thorin shiver as the Hobbit’s curls brush against his neck.

“You’re warm.” Bilbo accuses, running his hand up and down the soft, pleasantly warm skin of his lover. “You know we have a word for people like you in the Shire? Hobbits who steal the bedding at night.”

 

“You wriggle.” Thorin counters, tracing a finger along the lines of Bilbo’s shoulder, the shirt that grows bigger on his shrinking body falling down to expose the skin once more. He really did need to visit a tailor once all this business with the Dragon was over. “And we have more than one word for that in Khuzdul.”

“Yes, well…” Bilbo starts, but a deep breath inhaling Thorin’s scent (like musky forests and clean, white snow) stops his mind in its tracks, leaving him to end, a little bit dazzled, with “Oh, bother.”

“Better.” Thorin smiles, pressing moist lips to Bilbo’s forehead, kiss so hard he leaves a mark on the pale skin underneath. All too soon the Dwarf’s eyes begin to linger on the closed door to the kitchen, the company, and Bard the Bowman. “What do you think today will bring?”

“Oh, I dare say we’ll have a few threats made to our lives. The odd imprisonment.” Bilbo suggests, rubbing a hand across his sore eyes. Dwalin wasn’t the only one not to get much sleep the night before – Bilbo’s need to touch every inch of Thorin’s body growing ever keener the closer to The Lonely Mountain they get. 

He feels Thorin’s chuckle before he hears it, taking his hands from his eyes just in time to catch the crinkle by his lover’s eyes, to watch the way his face scrunches up then relaxes as he laughs.

“That does sound familiar.”

They lay together in silence for a few minutes. Bilbo listens out for any of the telltale noises of the company rousing – flatulence, raucous laughter, the sound of Bombur’s chewing – but there are none. He glances over at the shadow’s the rising sun makes on the wall.

“Will we leave today?” Bilbo yawns, turning back to Thorin to tease out a mat in his hair.

“Before dark, I should hope. Durin’s day is nearly upon us, and I wish to leave before the men of the town cause us any trouble.”

“Hm, trouble.” Bilbo remarks. “I’m beginning to wish I’d suggested we spend the entire day in this bed, you know?”

Thorin smiles, inclining his head to one side and catching Bilbo’s face in the palm of his hand, thumb trailing across his bottom lip.

“We have time to put this pretty mouth to work first, if it would sweeten the pain of the afternoon’s pillaging and danger?”

Bilbo laughs, his chuckle rocking Thorin’s thumb up and down, until it slips between his lips and rests instead heavy on his tongue. 

“I mean it.” Thorin whispers, his head lowering to Bilbo’s ear. “I’m always aching for you in the mornings.”

Thorin catches Bilbo’s hand and reaches it down to the length of his cock, encouraging Bilbo to squeeze it through the heavy material of his trouser, the already half hard length not taking much convincing to raise itself out of its slumber.

“Did I not say, Master Baggins?”

Thorin pushes the covers off of them with a surge of energy and Bilbo finds that he doesn’t actually feel too cold, the late Summer sunlight shining down on him through the windows is warm and the blood pumping through his veins as he dips his lips to kiss the head of Thorin’s cock is heated warmer than any Hobbit hole.

With one hand bunched up in the covers Thorin uses the other to guide Bilbo’s head, the two of them working together as lips enclose cock, to the perfect angle. Every so often Bilbo pulls back simply to admire his handy work – the blush of Thorin’s cheeks, the sweat on his thighs, the saliva mixing with pre cum on his pulsing cock – in the light of day, trailing a finger up the vein on the underside of Thorin’s cock and nearly making him come without his mouth doing any work at all.

“Careful now.” Bilbo warms, tugging slightly on the front of Thorin’s shirt. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Being done with him, Bilbo means, is going in for the kill like a Eagle to prey and swallowing Thorin down right to the back of his throat, covering the length the Hobbit cannot cover with his mouth with his small hands. It brings their liaison to a close with a shaking grunt from Thorin. Bilbo is able to watch with wide open eyes as Thorin spills his seed, paying particular attention to the serene look of calm that the Hobbit is sure only passes the Dwarf’s face when he reaches his pleasure.

“Was my pretty mouth to your favour, oh mighty Thorin, King Under the Mountain?” Bilbo asks as he clambers back up the bed, decidedly less tired than he’d felt 10 minutes before. 

“More than satisfactory.” Thorin smirks, watching as Bilbo falls back on the bed, crushing the Dwarf’s arm under his body without a care. “Perhaps I should have Balin add another addendum to your contract.”

“And be employed as your consort?” Bilbo grumbles, freeing Thorin’s arm from underneath him, allowing the Dwarf to pull him in for a deep kiss that tastes of the remnants of last night’s ale and mutton. “I should think not.”

Thorin laughs, pressing one final kiss to the curves of Bilbo’s smile as they hear the first angry knock on their door, Dwalin’s voice informing them that Bard had woken and taken leave with a look of thunder on his face.

Bilbo watches Thorin rise and dress, looking every inch a commander and King, and revels in the smile the heir to Erebor gives him as he slips out the room to his peers and advisors. Bilbo sighs, and curls down under the covers, allowing himself just a few more moments of rest before he faces the day ahead, thankful at least that Thorin’s departure means his feet are warm, even as he mourns the loss of their morning of bliss.

When all this is over, he promises himself, swinging his feet out from the bed to the cold wood of the floor, he’ll visit a tailor, and make sure that Thorin Oakenshield doesn’t leave their bed for at least a week. Duties be damned.

After all, it’s what a King’s consort deserves, isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first stab at Hobbit fic, and my first fic of ANY fandom for a while, so be gentle but constructive!


End file.
